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may 31, 2001 - 13:44

if you were on a plane, flying through perfectly smooth air, there is no experiment, no physics equation involving motion that you might use to determine, definitively, if the plane was moving. all experiments would resolve exactly as they would, were the subject to be idling, stationary, on the ground.

this fact is expressed in a postulate, which i believe was referred to as the theory (or was that principle?) of galilean relativity. physics classes seem so far away these days...

'In a system of uniform motion, the laws of motion are the same in all frames of reference.'

may 31, 2001 - 11:42

a dozen white roses, carried by proxy for an acquaintence too far removed. a dozen brilliant examples of how i'm losing it.. of how i lack the perspective, the piece of mind, the sanity to recognize a good thing when it is directly in front of me.

i am sick with myself. i am nauseated by deja vu. i am confounded: how do these things happen at the most improbable times?.. fate is a criminal notion indeed.

still, i love the way that they look on my desk. the way they are standing, defiantly, if only for an instant; casually placed beside my monitor, so perfect and innoncent and fragile and fleeting...

my head swims in the limitless possibilities of the metaphor.

may 31, 2001 - 9:45

i was startled to wake up in my bed this morning... it seemed far to bright outside; my sheets, pillow, glowing with ultraviolent luminescence. as if certain it was 10 am, that i was late for work, i half-jerked upright, clutching blindly for my phone. (which, at night, doubles as my alarm clock).

7:03 am. i slept for four hours last night, practically double any night in recent memory. the light hurts my eyes. i throw back the down comforter, but recede deeper under my sheets. it is safe here, dark.

i look up, through backlit plaid flannel fabric, glowing soft blue. my stomach is still doing that queasy thing... last night, i described it to r something like this:

"imagine you spent the entire day, riding roller coasters in the amusement park... that night, when you first turn off the lights, and lie, queitly in the darkness, you can sometimes feel your stomach... still tracing the movements of an invisible track that swoops and dives and loops before you. that's kinda what it feels like."

may 30, 2001 - 20:02

dull pain in wrists suggests that i have written excessively today. it is too late to be at work, but i don't really know what i'd be doing otherwise.

so i surf. eventually, i wash up upon her shore, her journal. i find her words, still damp, only recently posted. they are abrasive and rough against my skin. confused, i pick at the debris from fresh wounds; i find myself wishing she knew what i really felt. i am unable to explain. i have tried and tried, each attempt concluding in dismal failure.

she is amazing. she is perfect. brilliant and beautiful and talented. she is scared. she is trying to find out who she is. she is everything that i do not deserve. she has touched my heart. she has staked her claim.

but i did not give it away. i could not. it is far too poisoned for her angelic touch. overexposure might spread the contagion, infect her, cause her to fall as i have fallen.

she is entitled to her thoughts as everyone is. she is encouraged to continue to post them publicly in search of the same anonymity that i look for. i will not respond to her via email, it is suitable only to reply in this way.

i can dream that someday she will see how much she has touched me, how much she has illuminated my life. i have loved every interaction with her, and do hope that they continue. i trully wish i could match what she has offered me, but i cannot in good conscience, i am phsyically, emotionally unable.

even unworthy.

as much as i'd like to, i cannot help that i am not in the right place to recognize and accept all that she proposes-- as brilliant and fortuitous as i consider it to be. who would ever guess that i would be so lucky?

but right now, it would not be fair to her, it would not be fair to me.

perhaps i'm condemning myself.

i'm sorry j, you deserve better.

may 30, 2001 - 17:50

once a comfortable place to post my thoughts, feelings, the burden of this page has grown exponentially in recent weeks. why am i doing it? why do i transcribe my experiences, spill my insides, to this public forum?

i used to say that i found that it cleansed me. as if, by sharing with an anonymous audience (perceived headcount of zero), i was allowed the opportunity to stumble through and make sense of my daily conundrums without having to face anyone at all. somehow, i found it was easier to write in this manner than to myself (a rather boring, thus difficult, practice to maintain), or to any specific person (typically requiring tailoring, and resulting in a dozen versions of the same story, each subconciously edited for content).

with time, it became more comfortable to write things here; i eventually began opting not to send them directly to the few friends that i have left. this worked, primarily because i knew that they find time to frequent the site occasionally, and, well, because i really have nothing terribly important to say.

(symptoms of a more pervasive problem? inversely, i sometimes feel as if i know more about people from their 'public' writings than their private correspondence with me... yet another example of how this medium is changing the way that people interact with each other).

or maybe i really am just the idiot with absolute social dysfunction that i have disclaimed so many times in the past?

lately, it appears as if these plans are backfiring in both dimensions. (how long did i really expect it to last?)

.:the audience:.

suddenly, members of the very group that i was originally writing to became the subjects that i was writing about.  should've seen that one coming...

i consider this both a curse and a blessing; jp would call it bittersweet.

recognizing that casual words capable of informing or healing also have the ability to hurt, especially when they are considered out of context. do i really have the talent, the vocabulary, to effectively reproduce my feelings within this forum?

thoughts half completed leave room for interpretation, interpretation is subject to a reader's mood, and i have no mechanism to audit this. i am playing with matches. i am not authorized, not skilled enough.

i write here about my feelings. with time, they shift and change, sometimes before they are complete. i cannot help how i feel, and i cannot write them here unless they are authentic and current. (i know, because i've tried.. the passage was dry and totally contrived. recognized as a failure, it was deleted immediately).

so many things i've wanted to write about.. so many tastes, smells, touches; emotions that have had a shelf life of seconds (not the hours or days sometimes required to find their way onto this page). i'd love for them all to be here, but have recognized this as an impossible dream.

(well, at least until the day i can afford technology that can record electrical impulses across synapses, coupled with the ability to replay them in an useful manner).

perhaps when this is possible, these emotions might be documented before they were unwillingly twisted by my own deconstruction, subjected to my own interpretations?

a friend recently used this argument against me, in favor of a more traditional, book-style journal. although i concede this solution might amend the situation slightly, (for the rare times i am not sitting in front of a computer), it is also ultimately ill-suited for the manner of emotion i speak of.

for i cannot pause time, i cannot stop someone mid sentence, mid thought, mid glance, to write about the way they make me mad or sad or all fluttery on the inside; quite simply, i cannot capture what i'm thinking that instant.

this torments me daily, but i have begun to accept that there is nothing i can do to truly amend the situation.

may 30, 2001 - 13:05

lunch today: i purchase a grill special, consisting of one rebuen sandwich, one order of those terrible fried-frozen-thawed-then-refried squiggly fries. i eat three sloppy sushi rolls whilst waiting to exchange plastic number for sandwich.

i sit on the patio, directly above my truck. it is covered with dirt, real dirt, from driving on shoulders of deserted freeways, and that wierd dirty undirt that comes from the evaporation of coastal fog that collects dust, thus making dirty, as if out of thin air. this dirty brown continuum is disrupted only by the white and black records of passing foul.

'how embarassing,' i think to myself... my filthy vehicle sandwiched between two gleaming german cars. i turn around, look back inside, catch a glimpse of my food coming to me. i see my reflection in the window, superimposed over the image of coworkers, strangers really, eating inside. i'm not shocked to realize that my harrowed expression is not far off from that of my truck; it is pitifully obvious that i have not shaven for days, my hair stands on end, unkempt.

cafe worker arrives, i give him 17, he gives me lunch, i pick up the hastiy constructed sandwich and begin in silence. four quick bites later, i am done.

revelling in the speed of this queasiness, i think of a book that i have tried four times to complete, each attempt aborted due to environment variables beyond my control. i am moved by the recollection that i have not yet returned it, (for it has now been over a year), and walk into my office to retrieve the loosely bound collection of worn pages from the bookshelf. nausea, by jean-paul sartre.

it begins:

    Something has happened to me, I can't dobut it any more. It came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It came cunningly, little by little; I felt a little strange, a little put out, that's all. Once established it never moved, it stayed quiet, and I was able to persuade myself that nothing was the matter with me, that it was a false alarm. And now, it's blossoming.
    I don't think the historian's trade is much given to psychological analysis. In our work we have to do only with sentiments in the whole to which we give generic titles such as Ambition and Interest. And yet if I had even a shadow of self-knowledge, I could put it to good use now.
    For instance, there is something new about my hands, a certain way of picking up my pipe or fork. Or else it's the fork which now has a certain way of having itself picked up. I don't know. A little while ago, just as I was coming into my room, I stopped short because I felt in my hand a cold object which held my attention through a sort of personality. I opened my hand, looked: I was simply holding the door-knob. This morning in the library, when the Self-Taught Man came to say good morning to me, it took me ten seconds to recognize him. I saw an unknown face, barely a face. Then there was his hand like a fat white worm in my own hand. I dropped it almost immediately and the arm fell back flabbily.
    There are a great number of suspicious noises in the streets too.
    So a change has taken place during these last few weeks. But where? It is an abstract change without object. Am I the one who has changed? If not, then it is this room, this city and this nature; I must choose.
    I think I'm the one who has changed: that's the simplest solution. Also the most unpleasant.

may 30, 2001 - 8:32

such lovely notes from j this morning.. she is amazing; truly a solitary light, doing it's best to fight the pervasive darkness of my melancholy.

(what do you do when the adjective overpowers the noun? is the noun then superflous information? i think so. in this case, is not 'mood' the unnecessary, in fact, intrinsically obvious omission?)

it is somehow reassuring to know that i have worried someone... that my silence is noticed. in reality, i am desperately unworthy of her friendship, for she is far too bright a light for me to handle.

(of course, she will disagree with me).

but that is because she doesn't know me as i know me. honestly, i'd like her to, but am afraid that the inevitable will occur, and i cannot stand the thought losing another friend.

may 30, 2001 - 7:45

it's been a while since i've been in the office this early... honestly, i couldn't think of any place else to be. (and trust me, i did try...)

sweet dreams of early morning pillow talk dissipated by the tap tap of officer steven's maglite on my window...

disoriented. where am i? did i do it again? damn, this is getting embarassing. i reach for the ignition, provide current, roll down window...

"Sir, you are not allowed to park on the shoulder. Please move your vehicle."

well.. at least he didn't call me son... the brass of his badge reflects a rising sun, hits me directly in the eyes. i wonder if he planned that? funny, his last name is the same as my old housemate. wierd. well, not really.

'um, certainly. sorry. right away.' i reach for the ignition to complete the sequence... 'uh, sir?'

"Yes?"

'could you tell me where i am?'

may 29, 2001 - 22:11

confirmation now in, her train is officially en route; this weekend (containing the sum of my interactions with her) may now officially be closed, sealed, and committed to memory... each incident, now carefully catalogued and labeled for later deconstruction and analysis.

the silence of this tuesday night almost embarasses the echo of my friday self. i fret that i shall not be the same person again.

i woke up about an hour north of home this morning, on the side of the road; a dirty stripe that i do not remember parking within nor driving to. luckily, a 6 am sunrise afforded me the opportunity to race for the familiarity of my apartment to secure a change of clothes before facing work.

i was there for an hour. work. i was there for a solitary, highly un-productive hour. during that time, i did little more than sit on my patio with my head between my hands.

at some point, i realized i wasn't getting anything done, my thoughts far too consumed with unrelated affairs to be bothered by mindless business drivel. recognizing my presence laughable, and eventually asphixiated by an unbearable atmosphere, i bolted up from my desk..

what started as a casual walk eventually found me in the parking lot, found me again in my car, found me driving away.

thinking back this evening, i don't seem to recall ever returning to the office. in fact, i don't seem to remember ever telling my boss that i was leaving. i can't help but wonder if i've pushed it too far, if i will have a job to return to tomrrow? funny thing is, right now, right now, i don't even give a damn.

in fact, that just might be the catalyst i need.

ugh... my apartment crashes in on me. skin damp with nervous sweat, i am claustrophobic; cannot breathe. what is wrong?

well, nothing, really.

i am going to bed...

...or everything?  yes. tonite, everything is wrong.

actually, i'm going driving again; i find solace in speeding down dark streets, windows down, radio up, heater on. it is a drug. it compliments me. it provides an option; i need to escape.

(i need a rocket.)

may 29, 2001 - 21:05

it has now been two hours and fifteen minutes since we waved goodbye at the station.

i am desperate to write tonight.. to sort through these emotions.. to make sense what it is that i'm feeling, or what it is that i want. (what is left to want?)

on paper, the social math for the weekend was endlessly depressing:

(+1)	amazing individual, who i have smiled at for a year, but only just met.
(-1)	premier scooter pal, succumbed to the allure of life in the PNW
(-1)	very good friend, compliments of a unobservent motorist, LA
(-1)	aformentioned amazing individual, now off to persue a new life in NY
(-2)	discrete events that increase the distance between girl and boy
(-23)	emails that require immediate response to which i have no worthy reply

the sum of my experience; this lovely deficit? and if i started at zero? what then?

may 29, 2001 - 20:11

the sunset was exceptionally difficult this evening; i cannot shake the feeling that i have been somehow condemned to swim in this darkness for a long time to come.

may 24, 2001 - 16:48

sometimes you meet the most interesting people at the most improbable times.

Why did they send her over anyone else?
How should I react? These things happen to other people
They don't happen at all, in fact

When you're following an angel
Does it mean you have to throw your body off a building?
Somewhere they're meeting on a pinhead
Calling you an angel, calling you the nicest things
I heard they had a space program
When they sing you can't hear, there's no air
Sometimes I think I kind of like that and
Other times I think I'm already there

- excerpts from She's an Angel, by They Might Be Giants

any additional elaboration on this statement would probably fall desperately short of intent; i refrain.

may 24, 2001 - 12:03

my friend b writes:

i sleep now. don't tell anyone. i have perfected the art of sleeping with my eyes open, my fingers typing. i can even answer the phone and no one can tell! this is one of my special super powers. shhh...

i wonder if there would be any way to actually compete in this event? is it conceivable that we might find a way to definitively quantify who is the best at 'tuning out' reality in order to maintain a straight face within an oppressively banal work environment?

i imagine that i could be a pretty fierce contender in this event.

may 24, 2001 - 08:55

news flash: jack reports morning's reconnaissance mission documented poo-head man with quick feet seen driving car with one mirror; guilty concious now dissipated, jack opens sealed envelope, removes unmarked bills, buys smoothie.

may 23, 2001 - 23:45

so, yesterday afternoon...

due to unfortunate circumstances, jack found himself faced with the prospect of walking home in much the same manner he had seen fit to originally arrive at work that morning.

although it was an acceptable (perhaps more appropriately, the only) solution earlier, jack was desperately scrambling for ideas to circumvent bearing that indignity again. surely, some amount of walking was unavoidable, but this much was just plain unhealthy...

the pudding was to keep this necessary evil to an absolute minimum, whilst still allowing for successful escape from work (which coincidentally happens to suck more than walking).

luckily, jack recalls that he has been loaning a bike to a friend (who happens to live conveniently between his present location and his desired destination), and decides the time has finally come to reclaim the machine. (if he didn't need a bike now, would he ever?)

fast forward: we again rejoin our intrepid explorer as he is cruising through a nameless residential neighborhood, at a rather respectable pace. (infact, making much finer time than before. anything is better than walking...)

at this point, it would be important note that this is not a pre-meditated cruise, and jack is looking (and certainly feeling) a bit ridiculous whilst wearing his 'work' clothes on a tough and dirty mountain bike. _whatever_

protagonist perseveres, the viewers stay seated, we're again moving forward :

pedaling creates momentum, requires work
classical defintion of work implies excercise
excercise derives a rise in body temp
warm-blooded mechanism for temp equalization is prespiration

jack is sweating now; he sits upright on forward moving bike and begins focusing upon the task of removing his coat. right shoulder, right arm; then left shoulder, left arm. free, the coat is then tucked tightly under right arm and we continue, unhindered, on forward moving bike.

	beep-bzzt...  beep-bzzt...

phone is ringing again; it rings a lot today.. jack wonders if it's the girl as he begins fishing for phone without pullng over. now in hand, he pushes 'answer,' conversation ensues; while we continue, unhindered, on a forward moving bike.

...and then it all goes wrong. terribly wrong.

jack recognizes right of way, continues through intersection, when phoosh comes a large white trooper from the left, swerves directly in front then parks before a forward moving bike. jack has clarity and breath to excuse himself to remote conversation partner before correcting, overcorrecting, recorrecting and eventually colliding with a parked car, directly behind the offending trooper.

mobile on ground. jack on ground. bike on ground. side view mirror of parked car on ground. systems check : only dignity is injured... back to his feet, jack quickly assumes a defensive stance for anticpated dialogue with malicious antagonist.

'hey you!,' jack half-yells at figure that is effortlessly bounding for nearby front door. 'mind watching where you're going next time?'

SLAM says front door of house for man with quick feet.

now alone, jack reaches down to pick up bike, then mobile. he reseats dislodged nokia battery, and then guiltily looks at broken mirror. greatly upset that he must now leave a note with promising to recoup expenses for damage caused by incident, jack realizes that victimized car is parked half-blocking driveway of getaway house, suggesting tenancy.

poo-head driver with quick feet escapes to house to avoid responsibility for inciting accident of bicyclist; bicyclist with broken phone escapes to other streets to avoid responsibility for damage inflicted on parked car...

...promises to retun later in the evening to supply note explaining situation, (currently has no writing utensils) but ultimately decides that fair is fair, figuring poo-head jerk got off easy, this time.

bike is promptly returned to original loanee.

recently, it's a definitive sign that it's been a miserable day at work if i neglect to find an opportunity to sit here and whine about it. what? 7 pm? why am i still here? haunted by recollections of arriving at the office far too early this morning.

(miserability)

jack suddenly realizes that he is not alone; there are others who feel just about the same way about girls as he does... girls-suck.diaryland.com is just about the most brilliant idea he's seen in weeks.

...and then he realizes that the office has grown quiet, and it must now be time to walk home.

tired legs now rest beneathe my office desk, exhausted from a forced morning stroll, for scooters and cars do not tend to listen to drivers without keys. bag on shoulder, stereo in hand, i left the apartment this morning with everything but the means to effectively enter it again.

with the secure click of the latching front door, a panicked flash of my hand to pants pocket revealed what i already knew was true; as if instantly realizing that my typical 7 minute commute had now stretched to a probable hour, i sighed at good fortune in this morning's selection of comfortable shoes.

so, off i walked. i've never walked to work before, rode my bike a couple times, but have pretty much been a lazy punter about the entire affair.

after about 15 minutes, i'm thinking to myself, "wow, this is really nice... so many things i haven't noticed before, these flowers, that walkway..." i should walk to work once a week!

after about 30 minutes, i'm thinking to myself, "yeah, this is okay.. a nice way to arrive at the office alert and awake; no instant diving for coffee." i should walk to work once a month.

after about 45 minutes, i'm thinking to myself "@##$!@ this walk, @#$?*@! leave my keys in the kitchen, i'm never @#?!@ walking to work again... i'm tired, sweaty and miserable." about that point, i pass a car parked on some random residential street, with what looks like two white dogs in it.

baaaa...

baaaa...

'you know, leaving sheep in your car is a baaaad idea...'

'i mean, certainly it's baaaad for the sheep...'

'i've heard of passive alarm systems, but this is just baaaad...'

i saw the dancing man on the way to work this morning; he was standing in his favorite traffic triangle, tracing pirouttes in the shrubbery with a new pair of rocks. it really has been quite some time since i last saw him; honestly, i was slightly taken aback to find myself relieved with the knowledge that he's not dead. i must be going soft...

hopelessly consumed with the desire to make sense of a whirlwind of emotions, i am condemned to sit, as if paralyzed, before my machine.

i can not write tonite.

wholly unable to generate cohesive thoughts, my mind jumps systematically from this tangent thread to the next with an awkward precision that would make even the most talented freight-car hobo jealous.

i am daunted with the uncertainty i see in everything; i question even my own memory. subtle nuances decpihered only in retrospect, am i now falsely manufacturing them, or am i just now understanding them?

this feeling is pervasive; i am as dubious of this weekend as i am of last week's dreams or the fading recollections of acquaintances now several years removed from my life.

but it was brilliant, that i am certain.

i find comfort in believing that a decade from now i will be looking back on this state of jack, me, as i breathe tonite, as i exist this instant. thoughts, memories, feelings: all reflective of a complex system that documents the sum of my life's experience up to this point.

it would be an academic excercise to argue that if anything were changed, no matter how seemingly insignificant, this system would reflect that, and this state would simply not exist. my hope for the future is as undeniably intertwined in her touch as that of the cadillac bumper, or paramedic, at age four.

the email that decimated. the slushi nights. the stinky corner at 212. the days on the bay. the missing green machine. the water slide. the lightning. the first live launch. the crash. the alligators. the email that rebuilt.

each event, interlaced, a fundamental part of the system. were any conversation to be omitted, any experience altered, i would not, i could not, feel as i do at this moment.

(i would not change a thing).

now i sit with different faces
in rented rooms and foreign places
all the people i was kissing,
some are here, some are missing...

i never thought i'd ever get to be
the creature that i'd always meant to be
but i thought, in spite of dreams,
you'd be sitting somewhere here with me..

- excerpts from being boring, by the pet shop boys

tomorrow morning, my sophmore roomate and first real friend in college will be graduating. although we have not really spoken for several years now, ( in fact, since i transferred), i had long hoped to attend his commencement, entirely unannounced, just to 'touch base.'

now, on the eve of this event, i am victimized by several issues outside of my immediate control and must somberly resort to email in a vain attempt to wish him the best as he proceeds into a new era of his life.

	it feels like a cheap and filthy solution, 
	and that deeply saddens me.

as each second brings the evening closer, i prepare myself for defeat; today has been hopelessly unproductive. nervous energy fuels my distraction from pressing tasks scribbled on pale yellow paper.

too bad wes can't tell *me* what to wear...

10 working days since the origin of project mayo.. admittedly, it's hard to determine whether the experiment was a screaming success or abysmal failure; the employee cafeteria was barren as a supermarket liquor isle on superbowl weekend. (sure, there were a couple of bottles there, but they looked foreign, dejected, and entirely without organization or purpose.)

either:

• (+) all subjects have found a new zest for life and are out persuing it, or
• (+) all subjects have been accidentally killed off (this is science), or
• (+) all subjects have found new places to eat, as this place keeps serving funny tasting mayo, or
• (-) the cafeteria really is going out of business, as is rumoured, or
• (?) it's a statistical anomoly.

friday : they're on to me now... i knew it would happen eventually, but didn't suspect it would be so quick. the laundromat was bustling with activity this morning, even at 6 am... the wierdos, the freaky white powder soap paste, the smell... all there, just to spite me, and laugh at my unfounded sleep deprivation. this is my miserability.

i reset parameters, define new algorithms, plot to foil them again.

on the way home from work this evening, i could not help but dwell on my reflection in the back of a smartly polished suv... although i was admittedly quite fond of the way the chrome trim and headlamp hilighted the subtle reflection of my black scooter in the jeep's black paint, the moment seemed to carry more emotional weight than it might have typically warranted .

even though i know she's gone, i can't help but to look for those foreign blue plates on every jeep i see... i wonder if she'll ever write back?

thinking more of definate integrals since my previous post, i looked to an online resource to define an indefinate integral:

Main Entry: indefinate integral
Function: noun
Date: circa 1877
:any function whose derivative is a given function

- webster.com

well... this time i thought it might have killed me.

at least, that's what i was hoping, monday evening, whilst lying in the crevice betwixt tub and toilet... ( pondering then, all of the lovely things hosted there...) like an alien in my own bath, i was suddenly face to face with an entire universe i had not recently considered.

very small there, in that foreign but familiar space; i lay, suspended, at the point where the body derives comfort in impossible contortion and the mind swims in deadly coctail of introspection and gastrointestine.

i remember iterating through the list of people i might call for help; perhaps just for a steadying hand, or maybe a ride to the clinic. i found humour then, considering how small the list had recently become; small, like me, in that cold but calming space.

at times like these, each moment becomes a frame unto itself, an independent, discrete window of time, wholly discontiguous with any that may preceed or succeed it. each moment an infinity in an instant, while considered in series then instantiate a definate integral that documents my lament.

... but then, how did it get to be thursday already?

oh my; now i've done it...

it only took a few seconds; twenty-seven, in fact.   27 of the smallest conventional increments of time between when i first picked up, and again replaced the receiver.

	(dial tone)
	11 digits, now it's ringing; 
	extention redirection, then 'hello?'

	(disconnect)

a railroad flatcar is traveling to the right at a speed of 13.0 m/s relative to an observer standing on the ground. a motor scooter is being ridden on the flatcar. what is the velocity (magnitude and direction) of the motor scooter relative to the flatcar if its velocity relative to the observer on the ground is a) 20.0 m/s to the right? b) 4.0 m/s to the left? c) zero?

-Section 3-6, Relative Velocity, question 3-28, from University Physics, by Young, Freedman.

don't you just love how the lyrics of your favorite songs can subtly change meanings as you listen to them at different points of your life? how, not unlike diamonds, they can sometimes reflect and enhance the colors of their surroundings?

for over a decade i have been fond of this song; but this afternoon i fell in love with it all over again. heavenly headphones, i am dancing in my chair...

"Show me how you do that trick
The one that makes me scream," she said
"The one that makes me laugh," she said
And threw her arms around my neck.

"Show me how you do it
And I promise you,
I promise that
I'll run away with you
I'll run away with you."

Spinning on that dizzy edge,
I kissed her face and kissed her head,
And dreamed of all the different ways I had
To make her glow.

"Why are you so far away?" she said.
"Why won't you ever know,
That I'm in love with you,
That I'm in love with you?"

You
Soft and only
You
Lost and lonely
You

Strange as angels
Dancing in the deepest oceans
Sitting in the water
You're just like a dream
You're just like a dream

Daylight licked me into shape.
I must have been asleep for days,
And moving lips to breathe her name,
I opened up my eyes

And found myself alone, alone
Alone above a raging sea
That stole the only girl I loved
And drowned her deep inside of me
You

- Just Like Heaven, by The Cure

careful observation has led me to conclude that mayonnaise must be the most misunderstood condiment in the world.

secondary to the notion that it is not, contrary to popular opinion, a dairy product, (instead, a creamy concoction typically derived from egg yolks, vegetable oils, and vinegar or lemon juice ), it seems that some people don't seem to understand it's two primary sub-classifications, specifically, that of: regular & nonfat.

although it is nearly impossible to differentiate these two opaque substances visually ...

( a fact that is further complicated because the cafeteria has taken to displaying them, side by side, in identical white containers, each then with a white spatula labeled 'regular' or 'nonfat' respectively. )

another morning finds me sprawled on the floor of my living room, awakened by a chilly whisper transgressing the gap under a poorly hung front door. again, i can vividly recall my evening's ritual; locking the door, brushing my teeth, being swallowed by the welcome security of a down comfter as i settle into an empty bed. again, i awaken in another room.

how then did i end up out here? why does this keep happening? why must i continue to find myself in miserable places, with no recollection of how i got there?

and the most disturbing thing? after about two months of this miserable behavior, i am actually getting to the point when i can predict the nights that it's going to happen. just something about the way that words seem to hang in the air, or the way that the electric cackle of streetlights seem to resonate in my helmet on my way home from work. it's weird.

although i casually joked about it to r last night, this trend is really starting to freak me out. perhaps next time, i will leave my camera rolling... but damn, that would only film for an hour... but what if i got some motion sensors?...

scary feeling this, not knowing yourself.

sitting at my desk; post-it notes, like confetti, line the perimeter of my monitor; in turn, styrofoam cups, now devoid of liquid, find purpose in segregating spent tea bags from scarred desktop, and surround my keyboard like angry natives. it's 8 pm.

why am i still at work? why does my stomach hurt? why are my eyes so sore?

but the light, at this time of night, is brilliant. a cool, even light, that spills through my office window; it calms everything, and brings me down from a long day on edge. only one task remains undone:: the delivery of ornate envelopes, brief messages from a world away, each with recepients name's written small. for what manner of message am i the unqualified postman?

log off, shutdown, powerdown, flee. i am liberated...

whilst engaged in a conversation with a friend this morning, she loosely compared the current state of her life to a sailboat, idle and powerless, without wind or momentum.

now, i am in no way a professional sailor, but i have spent a pretty good quantity of time in a boat; and in the interim, have learned a thing or two about sailboats, specifically how they interact with their environment.

once, (when i had gone well beyond the mile marker), the invisible wind that had been kindly dancing with me all about the bay ultimately accomplished it's manifest destiny; what was once not visible, was now no longer felt.

the ocean now smooth and still, like glass, reflects the setting sun in brilliant hues of red and orange, then dilluted to pastels by a fogbank rapidly rolling in behind us. (strange thing, fog banks; sometimes, they seem to move without wind, as if they are pushed from behind). so there we sat.

(catch the subtle shift from 'i' to 'we'? :: jack suddenly remembers that there were crew members on the boat... a fact that will become rather important shortly)

so, i'm reading this book that my friend s mailed to me...

( actually, that's sort of a neat story in itself.. i was sitting at my computer, reading about how she was thinking that this work might be something that i would enjoy, when bao... in comes a coworker to hand me a package. "what's this?" i think; and imagine that, it's the book. )

occasions such as this could really spoil a guy...

anyway, i really liked this passage; it's one of those 'well, duh', sort of thoughts (one that i wish i would have put together on my own). then again, i'm thankful that somebody did:

"There was something the tour guide said to us," she told me. "He said one reasons film stars are called stars is because by the time you see them on the screen they're already gone. And with the real stars, the legends, you're watching them after they've been dead for years and years. Still shining. Just like the stars in the sky do. I'd never thought of that before, Peacock. I just love it here. I never want to leave."

-from The Peacock Manifesto, by Stuart David

today is a brilliant day for email; such lovely things have fallen into my inbox.. for example, my globe-trotting housemate sent me this story from the UK, and it really made me smile:

i was a this sushi restaurant on monday night and they had robotic drink tray things circling the building (not to mention sushi on conveyer belt thing instead of sushi boats!) and the robot was so great and was chockful of sensors, stopping if you spoke to it, stopping if you stood in front of it. and at one point, it was next to me and as it passed behind me, it said in its little metallic whisper voice, "i am close to you now."

and at that moment, i thought the world was a good place.

-she

don't you just love it when you are working on something for hours. (i mean, forever) you're banging your head against the monitor; why doesn't this work?.. it looks correct.. everything is in line... you've checked (and double-checked) every nuance, every possible catch, everything.

then, BINGO, it just starts. after changing nothing, it suddenly works. as if it (the machine, the software, the network.. doesn't matter) just wasn't in the right 'mood' before, and now you're left to sit there, scratching your head, thinking, "what changed?"

sub-thought: seems as if computers become more like people every day. (i guess you could probably get away with claiming the inverse as well... )

then again, if (when) that day comes, maybe i'll finally understand people.

as i sit here, unable to concentrate, i cannot help but to replay her monday night words over and over in my head... how could she say such things? how could she make such trivial comparisons? thoughts that flowed so casually from her fingertips destroy me more effectively than bullets or broken cars, or..         ... nevermind, it's like nothing else.

i cannot help but to feel cheated; hollow, empty, as if somebody has stolen years of emotions from me. as if they carved them from my heart itself.

have you ever noticed the subtle difference between 'looking up and seeing someone,' vs. 'looking up to see someone?'

it's kinda like this... imagine you're at a party, or at the coffee shop, or someplace out in public, with lots of noise and distractions. suddenly the crowd parts and there is your friend. bao. he/she/it's there. right there, right in front of you. out of the blue; surprise. perhaps you say hello to this casual acquaintance and then move on... thinking to yourself, "imagine that, meeting them here..."

i consider this an example of 'looking up and seeing someone.'

on the other hand, imagine you are sitting, alone at the library. or on a park bench under the stars.. just someplace quiet.. solitary, where you can hear yourself breathe. at times like this, you can feel somebody approaching, you know they are there; the instant before they have drawn close enough to touch you, you might 'look up to see someone,' to understand whom was responsible for the change in environment by the introduction of their mere presence?

so, last weekend, i came tumbling out of the movie theater, in the midst of a rather animated narration of events i had only recently observed; sharing them (in perhaps too much detail) for the edification of my friend r. BOOM, i throw open the glass door, exploding into the lobby, but stop suddenly... breathless, practically trembling with the violence of some desperate tension that hung in the air.

there were quite a few people there, standing around, milling about... some queued to purchase tickets, others, just loitering, leaning against walls, smoking cigarettes appropriated from a parent's misplaced pack. at this moment, in this crowd, i looked up, to see someone, or something.. i honestly didn't know what i was expecting to see, but then, suddenly, she was there. directly in front of me...

/i thought she lived in another town/

again, i awaken to my computer's beep-beep-beep protest of a key punched too many times. slowly, i lift myself off the keyboard, where my unguided limbs sprawled in unconsciousness; i move in short bursts, reaching to put the machine to sleep before i notice a message from my father has arrived while i slept.

there is no explanation, only an attachment. as you listen to it, imagine your computer, continuing drone beep-beep-beep in the background, a desperate attempt to catch up with what it perceives as user ineptitude. imagine the shapes of your keys, written in sleep, to your cheek's impressionable flesh. imagine how pitiful and ironic this all is when considered together, at 2:30 am.

gee, thanks dad.

he can see no reasons... Tell me why I Don't like Mondays Tell me why I Don't like Mondays I want to shoot The whole day down -I Don't Like Mondays, by Boomtown Rats

what reason do you need to be shown? you have a miserable project to work on surprise, the cafeteria now charges for sodas that always used to be free you broke your badge, and they lost your 'on file' picture you actually toss your mobile with the trash from lunch you work for a connectivity / networking company, but the internal network always seems to be broken.

may 6, 2001 - 21:42

what a strange weekend. i could write for hours about some of the wacky things that happened over the last few days; however... i promised somebody i'd see a movie before tomorrow, a request that i had almost forgotten until it was too late.. (i just barely made it to the video store before they closed!). jeepers, that was close.

may 4, 2001 - 13:25

there are some days that i just float.

this floating is not like flying, rather, like particle suspension... similiar to the bright red and white buoys once employed whilst fishing with my grandfather, i sit, waiting; the initial ripples of my introduction to this medium have long since faded into anonymity; the presently undisturbed surface is still as glass.

somedays, this silence is sacred; i swim in it, am purified by it. others, i just long for somebody, something, to pull the damn line, for this resonance can be haunting.

it's far too quiet today.

may 4, 2001 - 11:04

i just stumbled on this quote, written in one of my old notebooks. i know not where it originally came from, but thought it was interesting; i wonder what i was thinking when i wrote it down? would i have then scoffed at my futureself, as i exist in the present?

"don't confuse light with heat, or motion with progress..."

oops.

random thoughts from a busy day:

• during lunch, i befriend an old newspaper, found on a chair tucked under the table. style section proclaims: "...'50s and '60s big at Milan furniture show..."     duh.
  
  
• apple redesigns new ibook to look sexy like older sister, powerbook. it's cheap too. (well, relatively). this is jack's beating heart.
  
  
• is alabama, in any way, related to london? i mean, is their any rational, cohesive link? before today, i would (quite rationally) say no. sadly, with the wisdom of this afternoon, it seems like things have changed. will i fall for the carrot? or, perhaps more properly, will i be pushed? ugh.
  
  
• new development: someone has provided cliff notes for the serge gainsbourg song, 'je suis venu te dire que je m'en vais,' that i was wondering about yesterday... turns out that it is even more brilliant than i could have guessed :

  > your sad serge song is simply somebody telling their
  > loved one that he's had enough, and it's time to
  > give up and move on. think of the happy times and
  > cry, but know that it's time to say good-bye..
  > that sort of thing. it's a very regretful feeling,
  > yet one of assurance that it's the right thing to do...
  

'it's a fine day for sailing, let's go for a spin,
you don't have to worry that i'll push you in.'

- A Fine Day For Sailing, by Go Sailor.

so, on my way to work this morning, i'm driving past the fire station, and i hear a siren... typical enough for a fire station, i suppose, and don't think much of it. (at first) but then, if the siren's going off, why are all the firemen still just milling about the engine, lackadaisically polishing the chrome bumpers?? c'mon guys, go save some lives...

oh wait. yikes!.. a quick glance behind me confirms my suspicions, as there is a large harley-straddling cop trying hard to get my attention.

um, sorry sir.. these full-face helmets, you just can't hear much...

damn, i'm thinking to myself.. sure is a good thing that i finally got this scooter registered; (like, i put the sticker on yesterday), although, it is too bad i don't have current insurance on this particular one.

( old insurance expired during the middle of last month, and tight financial times mandate monthly rotation of scooters. this one should not be out, but it happened to be closest to the door, and i was late, and... )

aww hell jack, think of something quick. i pull over, breathe deeply with my eyes closed... using the brief moments to collect myself before i must remove my helmet and enter this forced interaction.

"well, son, in a bit of a rush today? you rolled through that last stop sign pretty quickly"

i hate it when people call me 'son,' but bite my lip, thinking 'thank goodness he didn't see...'

"and, well, i noticed you did the same through the one just before that... now, i know there aren't many cars out at the moment, but, well, you just gotta stop at those big red signs, yah here?"

'...the wheelie...' then again, i don't think i even bothered to slow down much for the sign before that.. a real terror i've been lately... a public safety nightmare... an enemy of the state... that reminds me, i still have no...

"and now that you have finally stopped, i see that your brake light is out too... now, maybe if you had a mirror on your scooter, and seen the big harley behind you, perhaps you might have used your hand signals; now that you can't miss it, do you mind if i have a look at your license, registration, and..."

'...insurance....'

showtime.

i calmly reach down into my glove box, i remove my tool bag, my spares bag, and my tightly sealed registration bag. oh look officer, i have a spare bulb right here, i can amend this situation, as we speak, see what a good, prepared citizen i am? i flick through the stack of registration cards... all cards, for all my scooters, and my truck are in here. this scooter's is on top. i did just put the sticker on yesterday...

triumphant, i hand it to him. he nods his head, suggesting that i continue to deliver. it's the insurance he wants. he knows it. he's got me. whatever.

you see, insurance cards typically cover 6 month ranges, thus, two cards, per scooter, per year. multiply this by a handful of scooters, plus a truck, and recall that i haven't cleaned out this bag in a while, and well... i've got lots of little cards to fish through. lots of time.

meticulously, i inspect each one in turn. my hands are full, so, i start handing them to him. 'Sir, um, would you mind?...' not this one. i give it to him. not this one. i give it to him. nope. give it to him. 'for my truck.' give it 'another scooter' give 'other scooter' give 'oh, here's last month's, for this bike...' give '...now, where's the new one?' flip. nope. give. flip. nope. give. flip. nope. give. his hands are full now, and he's starting to look flustered. flip. nope. give. flip. nope. give.

just then, an overzealous breeze takes 1/3 of his stack, and litters it down the street. (again, i think of the student thesis!) i pretend not to notice. flip. nope. give.

embarassed, frustrated, he seizes the opportunity...

"alright, alright... i have to go... you, um, fix that taillight. and, remember to stop in the future, and, put a mirror on that thing damnit, it's the law."

bzz, THWOP THWOP THWOP, the harley starts, he is gone.

'... yessir!'

tonite, there is an energy in the air that i just can't put my finger on. ( i know that sounds terribly hippy-dippy, but that's not my point... ) the sky is crystal clear, and it's ultra warm, yet there is this really intense (hot) easterly wind blowing. (if this were so. cal, you would call them santa ana's). everything seems so poignant and edgy.. i wanted to stay out all night, just breathing.

my friend k calls and asks me to distract her.... a masochistic attempt at procrastination, as she has some sort of paper due tomorrow that she has been avoiding all day.

"of course, i'd love to help!" (what else did i have to do?)

walk down to the garage. uncover and unlock a scooter, (tonite i choose the black one) zip over to her house, and jog up stairs to front door. ding-dong. "hello." back at scooter, choke, kick, throttle. she wears a pretty pink skirt with blue tafeta overlay, that shimmers like shark skin; no option but to ride side saddle.

out of the driveway, down the street. left. bump bump bump right. down the hill, going fast now, she squeezes tighter. turn left. downshift. park. we drink coffee that i can't really afford to purchase, but still crave anyway. we speak of far away lands... she speaks wistfully of life after graduation. i lament the commitment of work. wind whips through the patio, and steals the cigaratte of our neighbor, firing it past us like a shooting star.

speechless, we replace our helmets. kick kick kick scooter likes sleeping at coffeshop, rarely wants to leave. kick kick kick Brap-pbth kick kick kick Brap-tat-tat (finally) tat-tat-tat...

click 1st gear, twist, TAT-daTAT-TAT. a fire engine drives by, with red lights piercing great swathes through sediment tossed into the air by restless winds. its siren resonates down sleepy alleys. i pull out directly behind it, hopelessly entranced by the flashing lights.

pow 2nd pow 3rd pow 4th, we're driving along west cliff now. lights from boardwalk are swallowed in the darkness of the ocean's distressed surface. stars are everywhere, and we're the only ones out. the scooter tracks along the lane like a toy top in the wind. enthralled with the clarity of the moment, i can't help but feel nostalgia for similiar experiences, only recently past.

bored with idling. tired of dwelling on things outside of my control... (why did it happen like this?) must lose myself in the moment. twist going very fast now. un-even road surfaces, odd, side-saddle weight distribution, and high winds make focus paramount. salt spray, tossed helplessly into the darkness by waves crashing below falls like candy on my parched lips.

twist. i know that she's comfortable (and experienced) enough to ask me to abstain, to slow down, but her squeeze beckons me to go faster. click 3rd click 2nd i roll through the stop, not bothered with 1st... pow 3rd pow 4th i lean deep into the corners, and she mimics my movements, even my breathing... i wonder if her eyes are closed, or if she sits behind me, staring at the unfaltering light of faraway stars.

this is it. full throttle; terminal velocity. as fast as possible. exhaust scrapes in corners, a subtle reminder of just how fine the line can be. like an overzealous dancing partner, the wind carries us like a recently dropped thesis. we track from shoulder to centerline and back again. compensate left, compensate right. clutch, brakes. lean now throttle... faster

then, suddenly, like a dandelion's spontaneous release of it's gliders, it is done.

it's fuel spent, the rocket tumbles back towards earth; her doorstep, she steps off, waves goodbye, and quietly slips inside, presumably to begin her paper; i go home and eat day-old chinese leftovers.

j speaks of what it's like to learn the cello:

> you hang out, get to know each other.. one thing leads to
> another.. soon your legs are wrapped around her, and you're
> moving as one to your own beat, making beautiful music
> together. hang out with > randall's cello for a while.. see
> if the sparks fly. (if there are > sparks, you're not using
> the right side of the bow)

this is one of the sexiest paragraphs i have read in weeks; i hope randall doesn't get jealous if he catches me glancing at his cello, whilst distant and daydreaming... ;)

my friend s just sent me this quote:

Ryan Topps rode a green Vespa GS scooter which he polished twice a day with a baby's nappy and kept encased in a custom-built courrugated-iron shield. To Ryan's way of thinking, a Vespa was not merely a mode of transport but an ideology, family, friend and lover all rolled into one paragon of late forties engineering.

Ryan Topps, as one might expect, had few friends.

- from White Teeth, by Zadie Smith

i suppose this would be a poor time to point out that the vespa GS actually came out in the mid to late 50's, and ran until the mid 60's. everything else she says is dead-on though...

i guess a scooter-geek trivia admission such as this might hilight the fact that i too, have few friends. ( iron shield?.. that's a great idea! )

moving out of the beach house into an apartment has required some serious concessions... ultimately, i decided that life, unhindered by eccentric roomates was worth it. sometimes however, sometimes i question the validity of my decision.

now, it's obvious that i miss living two blocks from the ocean, and althought the 4.5 blocks i must now walk takes twice as long to traverse, it is a survivable ramification. on the other hand, one of the things that i really miss (besides DSL) is my washer and dryer...

i mean, i loathe using laundramats... there's just something icky about the entire affair. putting my sweaters into a machine that only recently held joe's tighty whities makes me cringe every time. or, perhaps it's that crusty white powder residue that clings to the sides? (i'm definately a liquid soap kinda guy.) and then there's the people... that's the worst part. the people that always want to talk to you in these places, about nothing at all, or something that you don't care about. why are they washing their clothes anyway? they don't seem to ever take showers, so the clothes will just get dirty when they put them on. then again, maybe they are wearing their 'laundromat' bodies.. akin to the torn up 'laundry-day' warm-up pants and t-shirt that i wear? (those are gross too) whatever. i guess i'm going to hell.

anyway.. so, i have to use them (the laundramats) now, no choice in the matter. stick out your chest, and do what has to be done (although, i admit, i do laundry about 1/3 as much as i used to.. shirts i haven't worn in years are suddenly being dragged out of my closet).

the one near my house opens at 6 am, and i have found that going there, at 6 am, simultaneously reduces my chance of having to meet any new friends, and ensures that i'm the first one to use machines cleaned the night before. a win - win situation, eh? (except for the fact that i have to wake up at 6 am!)

so, on with the point... while sitting there, drinking my orange juice, staring into the dryer at the high-point of the spin cycle, i had a couple of realizations:

1. a lot of things about 'apartment life' are faster than 'house life.' (and i'm not just speaking about the way rent $$$ depletes my checkbook...)

• laundry, for instance: the laundramat provides a massively parallel solution to a previously linear problem. i can do 4 loads simultaneously, and now only have to deal with 2 stages... (washer and dryer), and be done in under 2 hours, in time to go to work. this is in contrast to before, where 4 loads would take the better part of the day... sure you could start it and walk off, but then you'd rememeber an hour later, have to move loads, and repeat.. (that and your housemates are also waiting to use it, and if you forget for too long, your stuff goes on the floor, all wet and gross).
• or, washing your car: again, this was fodder for a lazy saturday in the sun, and, if done right, could take several hours. now, with the drive-thru you-do-it-carwash, time is money. i can wash my entire truck in under 6 minutes. amazing. i wish i was always this productive.

2. although i'm not fond of physically waking up so early, i actually quite like being up at that time. everything is so new and fresh. morning light is almost as lovely as twilight-light, without all the people.

3. working during the summer is much better than the winter. although i still do the same hours, having sunshine before work and after work seems to make the days go by quicker. (in fact, for the last three days, i've been the last one here, not unlike the kid who fell asleep during recess, as my body is used to not wanting to go home until it's dark. "oh wait, it's 7pm? i should go home now..." )

jeepers, that's sad. okay. off to purify!

	/she's on date #3; i'm at home, eating ice cream/

so, i just got back from playing racquetball with my friend b; we played for the first time last week, and it was really fun. (neither of us have played for years, and realized that the excercise might be good for us.)

nothing serious really, as both of us are out of shape, and we only have the faintest recollection of the rules. we run around in circles, chasing a brightly colored ball, and talk about what's going on in our respective lives. it's good fun. or, it was; tonite it was just stress.

these weird uncomfortable silences always happen between me and her, and it's really frustrating. either i will say something that is misinterpretted, or she says something that gets me quiet and thinking, and she just feeds off of it. whatever triggers it, the frustrating part is that when it happens, she just clamps up, and we stop talking completely. period. until the end of the day. (it's like the only 'reset' is a sunrise. )

sometimes it's okay with me, i can just bite my lip and move on... i recognize it as one of her personality traits; other times it's really infuriating, as i wish she would just tell me what she is thinking about, or just what happened to trigger the mood. by actually letting me know what happened, we might be able to prevent it from recurring. things are always just so intense with her.

ARGH!

anyway. i guess i'll go play with the bass now. (my friend k just let me borrow hers.) regrettably, this time of night, i have to play with headphones, or the evil apartment lady downstairs might beat me up. too bad she knows where i live...

j says she has been listening to this song all day. somehow, i had never heard it before, but quite like the band, so i was pretty curious to check it out. i found the 'trouser enthusiasts' mix on napster, and well, it's kind of nice. perhaps it's a good thing i don't have this on cd, as i'd probably be speeding if i listened to it in my car

She walked out on you last Saturday
Under the wheels
Of a crowd on main street USA
Know how it feels

She said cancel everything
And like a fool
You never see what's happening
You dropped out school

Get away let her go
Let her go now

Hey in your brain
Yeah you know
Let her go now

I should have told you
To lose that girl
I should have told you
That's not your world

On her radio she turned the disco down
Disco down

She thought she looked good in purple jeans
From Santa Fe
And she overdosed on magazines
Just fade to grey

- "Lose that Girl," by Saint Etienne.

yep. good 'ole sam brown, from explodingdog.com does it again. in a single image, he just about sums it all up.

yikes! it's 3pm... i'm late for a meeting!

my friend k just sent me this. it's cute, but hilights the fact i'm such a poo lately... just far too distracted, really. or wait, is consumed a better description?

my email buddy is such a bore
he never writes me anymore
he sits and gapes at his computer
i think he's turned into a 'robo-grammer'
all day he writes in lines of code
but never once writes me an ode
how does he do, well i don't know
if his letters were money, i'd be po'

someday i'll get it together, honest. maybe... (someday)

i'm listening to this song, by serge gainsbourg. my computer says it is called 'je suis venu te dire que je m'en vais,' i have no idea what it is about, (je ne comprends pas des francais <- my computer told me to say that too), but it feels so sad and sincere and i really like it.

i like to think it's about somebody telling somebody else how they feel, i mean, really opening up and coming out with it. that they love them, or maybe they don't love them any more, or perhaps they love them and just can't be with them; that they're leaving? i get a different impression with each repeat...

like an imposter, i eavesdrop on their conversation; i don't understand the lyrics, but feel this somehow punctuates the intensity (purpose) of the protagonist's message.

i wonder if i'd like the song nearly as much if i knew what they were saying.

damnit. i just realized i forgot my lunch. this wouldn't be so bad, except i did remember to take it out of the fridge... so, now it sits, like an obedient puppy, awaiting my return. condensation, slowly bluring the ink of the stack of letters (bills) that it sits upon (which i also forgot, to be fair...).

i wonder if pg&e, molly, will appreciate the spicy smell of my general chicken? something for them to think of, as they attempt to decipher the watercolor markings that once was text.

*miserable*

it seems as if i attempt a new response about every 15 minutes... regrettably, most of these are false starts (that is the worst part), deemed unsuitable to forward to the intended recepient, most typically due to caliber. (or lack thereof).

with each day of my perceived silence, the requirements for a thought-provoking and meaningful response are nudged up a notch. however, one must recall that we are dealing in internet time. this suggests that a once linear curve is actually now exponential... each new hour or day, in turn, doubles the weight of it's predecessor.

each one, in turn, pulling me farther below the deceptively gentle surface...

is it may already? it hurts my head to think about just how fast this year is flying by. hopefully, one of these days, i'll get off my arse and have something to show for it by the end.

the question, mind you, is just what would i like that to be?